Pineapple Mystery Box: A Pineapple Port Mystery: Book Two (Pineapple Port Mysteries 2)

by Amy Vansant

  “Yes! I came to talk to you for a second. Are you hurt? Can you get up?”

  Gloria stood and opened her door.

  “Are you alone?” she asked, peering past Charlotte.

  “Yes. Are you okay?”

  Gloria took a tentative step onto the porch.

  “Look around outside there. Do you see anyone?”

  Charlotte walked back to the outer edge of the porch and looked left and right, beginning to feel paranoid that somehow she wasn’t alone.

  “I don’t see anyone…am I looking for anyone in particular?”

  Gloria moved to the screen door and latched the hook.

  “Okay. Come in, quick.”

  She grabbed Charlotte’s arm, tugging her into the house, through the kitchen, down the hall and into a spare bedroom. Charlotte flipped on the light. Gloria lunged to shut it off.

  “Don’t!”

  Charlotte snatched away her hand and studied Gloria’s face. The woman’s bottom lip had swallowed her top and nearly touched her nose. Her eyes were wide. She looked worried.

  No, she looked terrified.

  She’d known residents in the community who had fallen to dementia. Gloria seemed too young but…something had to be wrong.

  “Gloria…can I ask what’s wrong?”

  “They’re trying to kill me,” she whispered.

  “Who?” Maybe she saw someone swapping her flag and thought they were trying to get in her home? “Did you see someone? Was it someone swapping out your flag?”

  Gloria’s expression flashed from fear to annoyance. “Swapped my flag? My granddaughter gave me that for my birthday!”

  Gloria’s top lip remerged somewhat less neon pink after its manhandling by the bottom. It made Charlotte wonder how much lipstick the average woman swallowed in a lifetime.

  I’ll Google that later.

  Right now, she had to divine what had upset Gloria. The woman seemed much less confused. Now she seemed peeved, and about something that made sense. That was a good sign.

  She pointed toward the front of the house. “The parrot drinking cocktails. Is that your flag?”

  “What? No! Why would my daughter let my sweet seven-year-old granddaughter buy me a flag with a boozehound parrot on it?”

  “Fair enough.”

  “My flag is a pair of flip flops and underneath it says Life’s a Beach.”

  Charlotte smiled. Ah. A flag with a cutesy swap-out for a curse word. Much better seven-year-old material. She touched Gloria’s shoulder. “Don’t worry about your flag. I’m pretty sure I can find it. Did you see them take it?”

  “No. What are you talking about?”

  “Vandals switched a bunch of decorations last night and you ended up with a parrot. Someone else in the neighborhood has your flag. That’s why I’m here; trying to find the culprits and Darla’s witch.”

  “Witchy-Poo is missing?”

  Charlotte sighed. “I refuse to call her that, but yes.”

  “Oh that’s terrible.”

  Gloria put her hand on her chest and took a deep breath. In her Hawaiian flowered shirt she had more in common with the drinking parrot than she knew. She was an adorable woman; the human equivalent of a Pomeranian puppy with soft, tawny hair and large brown eyes. It made Charlotte want to cuddle her and tell her everything would be fine.

  “So everyone got death threats?”

  Charlotte straightened. “What?”

  “Follow me.” Gloria tiptoed back to her kitchen, retrieved a piece of paper from her island and handed it to Charlotte.

  Colorful letters clipped from magazines covered the lined yellow sheet, arranged to spell Give me whats mine or your dead. The good news was Gloria wasn’t losing her mind. Someone really had threatened her.

  “You’re dead,” mumbled Charlotte.

  Gloria gasped. “What?”

  “It says your dead, y-o-u-r. Should be you’re dead, apostrophe r-e. They forgot the apostrophe in what’s, too.”

  “Will any of that make me less dead?”

  “I suppose not. I guess it just means they couldn’t find apostrophes to clip out.”

  “What do they want?”

  “I have no idea. Do you?”

  Gloria shook her head. “I can’t imagine.”

  Charlotte read the note several times and then picked at the edge of one of the pasted letters. “I thought only movie people cut letters out of magazines…and even then, only for ransom notes.”

  “Nobody told me this neighborhood was so dangerous.”

  “I wouldn’t worry. It must be kids playing a prank. Hey, did they put it in the mailbox? If they did it’s a federal offense.”

  “No, it was slipped under my porch door.”

  “Hm.” Charlotte noticed a partial fingerprint pressed into the glue. “Looks like there’s a—shoot!” She dropped the paper to the counter as if it had burned her fingers. “I shouldn’t be touching it; it’s evidence! We have to give this to Frank so they can dust it for fingerprints.”

  She rapped herself on the side of the head with her knuckles. Rookie mistake.

  Gloria scowled. “Why do you need fingerprints? I thought you said it was kids playing a prank?”

  “It probably is. This and the flags being switched and whatnot…”

  “So they aren’t targeting me?”

  “No…but…so far you’re the only one who received a death threat.”

  The blood drained from Gloria’s face and her eyes grew even larger. Clinging to a tree she’d pass for a bush baby.

  “So it is just me.”

  “As far as I know. I haven’t talked to half the residents yet.”

  Gloria nodded, pushed past her and slipped into the spare bedroom. The door shut with the soft click of a lock turning. Charlotte followed and called through the door.

  “Gloria, you can’t stay in your spare room for the rest of your life.”

  “There are fewer windows in here.”

  “So?”

  “Snipers.”

  “I don’t think there are snipers after you. They said they’re coming for you, not that they’re aiming for you.”

  “It would take a lot of patience to cut all those letters out and arrange them on a paper. Don’t you think?”

  Charlotte shrugged. “I suppose…”

  “You know who else has a lot of patience?”

  “Who?”

  “Snipers.”

  “Gloria, can you think of any reason why someone would…sniper you?”

  “Call the sheriff,” she said after a moment. “We need to do the fingerprints right away.”

  “You didn’t answer. Do you have enemies who—”

  “Call Frank! I want police protection!”

  “Okay. You sit tight.” Charlotte fished in her pocket for her phone and dialed the sheriff’s office. While waiting for the operator to locate Frank, she spotted a head bobbing past by the side window of Gloria’s home. She gasped and slapped her hand over her mouth. The last thing she needed to do was further terrify the tiny woman cowering in her guest room.

  “Gloria, I’ll be right back!”

  Charlotte ran through the kitchen and fumbled with the latch on the porch door before bursting onto the front walk. She rounded the house in time to spot two figures making their way through the underbrush separating the back of Gloria’s home from the farmland adjacent to Pineapple Port. They appeared to be young men, both wearing jeans and hoodies, hoods up. It was eighty-two degrees outside and while it wasn’t as humid as it could be, their clothing seemed unnecessarily heavy.

  “Stop!” she called, nearly toppling into the runoff pond on the side of the house.

  One of the boys looked at her. She saw a flash of white skin and brown hair, but little else that could be useful for identification. He took flight, crashing through the brush with his friend tight on his heels. Charlotte ran after them, pulling up short when she reached the natural barrier. It was full of thorny bushes and she was wearing sh
orts and flip-flops. She gritted her teeth. On one hand, she wanted to be a good detective; on the other, she didn’t want to flay all the skin from her legs. Who knew what Floridian horrors might be lurking in the swampy hell beneath the brush? She peered through the scraggly foliage and caught a glimpse of the two boys sprinting across the open field beyond.

  She was out of breath. She hadn’t run that fast since forgetting to set her golf cart’s parking brake on the only hill in the neighborhood. The boys were distant specks now. She’d never catch them. Even if she did, what could she do? Tackle them and demand they wear more weather-appropriate clothing?

  Grunting with frustration, she heard a tinny voice calling her name. It took her a moment to realize it emanated from her phone. She put it to her ear.

  “Hello?”

  “Charlotte? Is that you?”

  “Oh, Frank, yes. Sorry. I was running after some kids.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m at Gloria Abernathy’s. She received a death threat. It’s made out of clipped letters from magazines, like a ransom note.”

  “Clipped out letters? I thought that was only in the movies.”

  “That’s what I said! Anyway, she’s terrified and wants to talk to you. I saw some kids outside her house and chased them, but they got away through the brush that separates her house from the cow pasture.”

  “You stay out of there. We’ve been having a bit of a wild boar problem in that area.”

  “Seriously? I thought if I made it past the snakes, spiders and gators I was home free.”

  Charlotte glanced back at the underbrush as if it were trying to sneak up on her and moved toward the front door.

  “Let her know I’ll be there in a bit,” barked Frank. “I’m sure it’s just a prank.”

  “Will do.” She reentered Gloria’s and tapped on the door of the spare bedroom. “Gloria? Frank’s on his way.”

  “Thank you. Where’d you go?”

  “I ran after some kids I saw outside.”

  “Did you catch them?”

  “No.”

  “But that’s good, right? It probably is just kids?”

  “Probably. Don’t you think this conversation would be easier with you on this side of the door?”

  “Not really.”

  “Okay… Hey, have you ever seen any wild boars around here?”

  “Wild what?”

  “Never mind. Do you want me to wait here with you?”

  “Yes.”

  Charlotte wandered back out to the kitchen and noticed a plate of brownies covered in plastic wrap.

  “Can I have a brownie?” she called over her shoulder.

  “Yes. I left out the walnuts so if you have an allergy, don’t worry.”

  “Nobody likes walnuts. Why do recipes always tell you to put them in brownies?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Walnuts in perfectly good brownies. Now that would be a reason to threaten someone,” she mumbled as she sat at the counter and unwrapped the treats.

  Delicious.

  Being a detective did have its perks.

  Chapter Four

  His eyes fluttered open and for a moment, he didn’t know where he was.

  The dead body on the floor reminded him.

  Oh, Bobbi. It could have gone so much easier.

  He whispered a profanity and stared at the old woman nestled in a halo of blood. He’d done what he came to do, but now he had a mess. Now he had to get rid of a body.

  How?

  Drive her down to Alligator Alley. Throw her in the swamp. If the gators don’t get her, the pythons will.

  He tapped on his lips, trying to think through all the complications. He’d have to carry the body to the car without anyone seeing. No matter how careful he tried to be, there would be blood in his trunk, and he’d planned to drive his car to South America by way of Mexico. And what if he was pulled over for something stupid while he had the body? So many things could go wrong.

  Deep in thought, he noticed something unexpected.

  Bobbi Marie’s arm moved.

  He gasped and froze, his gaze locked on the body. Curled in the fetal position, her expression remained hidden from his perspective. Was she alive? He saw no other evidence of life. Her chest didn’t rise and fall. Yet…

  Her arm moved again and he slapped his hand over his mouth.

  Please don’t make me stab her again.

  With his thumb pressed against his nose, he found it hard to breathe, which gave him an idea.

  Suffocate her.

  Another flash of movement near the body caught his eye, but this time it wasn’t her arm moving. This thing was…fuzzy?

  Dropping his hand from his face, he stood and peered over the body.

  Bobbi’s cat stared back at him, his face and front paws covered in blood.

  Friskie.

  Gross.

  He moved to gain a better view as the cat ignored him and returned to business. Friskie had torn through Bobbi’s housedress and nibbled the edges of the knife wound until what was once a smooth slit had transformed into a ragged hole.

  The cat was eating her.

  He looked at the cat’s bowl in the kitchen and thought about the bags of food he’d seen in the cupboards. Unopened bags.

  Bobbi Marie, in her dementia, must have forgotten to feed the cat. Friskie must have been starving. In the few weeks he’d been visiting, he’d just assumed the old lady was taking care of her usual business. She’d seemed confused, but able to move, eat and use the toilet. Maybe the caretaker he’d dismissed had been feeding the cat? Maybe part of Bobbi’s illness made the cat invisible to her? Maybe she thought Indian Jones was feeding him? Now that he thought about it, he didn’t recall seeing food in the cat’s bowl.

  He put his hands on his hips and watched with morbid fascination as the cat continued to snack.

  An idea began to form.

  This is my out.

  What if Bobbi Marie died from natural causes and the cat ate her? Why did it have to be a murder at all? The tabby had already eaten most of the knife wound evidence… By the time anyone found the body he’d be long gone, having retrieved his box. He’d be in South America and any evidence of murder would be in the fat cat’s belly.

  He stepped over the cat, careful to avoid the blood, and cleaned the kitchen of his presence. The thermos of sleepy-milk went back into the plastic bag he’d used to transport it and he wiped down anything he thought he’d touched, just in case.

  In mid-polish, he paused as a disturbing new thought crossed his mind.

  The caretaker assigned to check in on Bobbi Marie had seen his face.

  Did he need to kill her too?

  He shook his head.

  Nah. Too risky. They’d never consider Bobbi’s death a homicide anyway. They’d assume she died of old age and the cat got hungry. Case closed. Anyway, hopefully, in a day he’d have his prize and be gone. They probably wouldn’t even find her body for a few days. Maybe a few weeks.

  I’ll be drinking mojitos.

  Thinking he had everything, he headed for the front door.

  Then he remembered.

  The knife.

  The most important piece of evidence and he’d almost forgotten it.

  Idiot.

  He found it beside the chair where he’d fallen asleep, wrapped it in a paper towel and put it in the plastic bag. The smudge of blood on the carpet wouldn’t be a problem. In a day or two, bloody paw prints would paint the apartment.

  Too bad he hadn’t taken more time to pet the cat during his visits. Kitty was solving all his problems. He owed it.

  Pulling the sleeve of his thin hoodie over his hand to open the door, he paused a moment to survey the apartment a final time. Friskie peered over Bobbi’s arm.

  “Bone appetite, cat.”

  He wiped the knob and closed the door.

  Rushing to his car, he placed the plastic bag on the floor of the passenger side. He was about
to close his door when he saw an orange cat sitting on the cement outside another resident’s room.

  Stepping back out of the car, he scooped up the cat and returned to Bobbi’s door. He opened it, threw in the cat, and locked it once more.

  If one cat was good, surely two cats were better. There wouldn’t be an ounce of evidence that made sense by the time the two little monsters were done.

  Chuckling to himself, he again wiped down the knob and hopped into his car. Nothing left to do but follow the box to its last known location.

  Pineapple Port.

  Chapter Five

  Declan locked the door of his home, his mind running through his to-do list. It was going to be a busy day. First, he had to work, open his pawnshop, the Hock o’ Bell, and sit; waiting to see what treasures the local community would bring his way.

  He needed to dust the shop. Due to the abundance of local retirement villages, he had more furniture than the average pawnshop and the trails left by the fingertips of idle shoppers crisscrossed the tops of his bureaus and tables like snake trails.

  After work, he hoped to grab dinner with Charlotte. They were due some quality time. When they went to her house, she seemed jumpy. He understood why; knowing the prying eyes of an entire neighborhood were monitoring your social life would be unsettling for anyone. Even a public restaurant might be more soothing.

  They couldn’t find any privacy at his house, thanks to Seamus. He needed to get on the real estate web sites and find his uncle some place to live. Maybe he could print out some spots and leave them scattered around the house in conspicuous places, like Seamus’ pillow, or the bathroom. His uncle certainly spent enough time in there. He was going to have to repaint the room when he left.

  Declan’s phone rang and he paused beside his car to answer it.

  “Hey,” said Charlotte.

  “Hey, what’s up?”

  “Guess what I’m doing?”

  “I wouldn’t hazard a guess.”

  “Interviewing everyone in the neighborhood to try and find out who stole a witch.”

  “A what? I—”

  Declan cut his thought short as he watched a car pull into his driveway. A blonde sat behind the wheel.

  No…

  He pushed down his sunglasses to get a better look.